The Schoolmaster's Daughter (43 page)

As the volleys began to diminish, the soldiers lying in the grass could be heard: crying, moaning, screaming. Benjamin had lost track of how many times he'd loaded muskets, perhaps three, perhaps four times, all in a matter of a few minutes. The smoke lay heavy on the field, sounds were muffled, but the cries of the wounded British soldiers only seemed to grow louder.

XXVIII

The Second Assault, and the Third

I
N THE SAIL LOFT, THERE WAS THE SILENCE OF DISBELIEF.
N
O ONE
moved as the British lines broke and spilled downhill to the beach, leaving the green meadow dotted with red: fallen bodies.

“So many,” Joshua whispered.

“They hardly got off a shot,” another said.

Joshua raised his spyglass. “It's chaos—soldiers are wading out into the shallows for the boats. But officers are threatening them. Some have sabers drawn—pistols.”

Then, there came the voices—from rooftops, church steeples, open windows voices rose up, swelling in the hot air as Bostonians cheered. In the sail loft, too, there was celebration. Men clapped each other on the shoulders. Women raised their hands. Sympathy's mother enfolded Abigail in her strong, heavy arms, nearly crushing her daughter between them. The jubilation went on for minutes. Abigail was pushed and passed from one to another, hugged, kissed, clutched about the waist and lifted off the floor.

Until Joshua shouted—not once, but twice—causing everyone to freeze. He stood at the window, peering through his glass.

“Our boys,” a woman said. “Are they safe?”

“For
now
, they appear to be,” Joshua said. “But the Brits are reforming their lines.”

“It's not over?” the woman asked.

No one bothered to answer as they again crowded toward the open windows.

It did not take long—perhaps fifteen minutes—for the British to begin marching up the hill a second time. Their scarlet ranks were thinner, but they moved with the same slow determination as before. The formation, Joshua noted, was similar to the first assault, except that the left flank did not delay as before, moving directly on the redoubt. The provincials held their fire again until the redcoats were nearly on top of them.

“One hundred feet,” a man said.

“Less,” said another. “Eighty.”

“Eighty?”

“Eighty. The distance from my barn door to the hay bales—I've walked it off.”

The shooting lasted a good while this time. No one kept track, but it wasn't over in minutes as before. Some said twenty minutes; others thirty. There was, Abigail thought, an absurd obsession with measurements, of time, of distance. It was how the men came to understand what was happening. The women, for the most part, were quiet, talking amongst themselves, though a few prayed, their heads bowed, their lips moving. All the while, the shooting was constant. The smoke seemed to be emitting from the earth, a relentless shroud drifting on the faintest breeze, obliterating the view of the American defenses. The only certainty was that more redcoats lay on the hillside, dead and wounded. Men were dying. They were the enemy. They were the soldiers in red who had for years ruled the streets of Boston. Abigail felt neither elation, nor deliverance. That moment had passed. It was a hot afternoon in June, and across the harbor men were dying. She thought she might cry—some of the women were—but tears didn't come. She didn't feel that way, no. There was, really, only a curiosity, and a sense of clarity, and she suspected that for the rest of her life she would remember every moment, every detail, and that they would come back to her, alive as they were now, yet changed because they were recollections; they would be forever part of her, part of all of them.

And then it was over. Again British soldiers descended the hill, many running, running for their lives, until they were beyond the range of the American guns. Others staggered, wounded, and some bravely helped another down through the meadow, which was strewn with men.

This time there was no jubilation. Not throughout Boston. Not in the sail loft. Perhaps a weary relief. There was no question now: though the British had been repelled twice, the battle was not over.

Benjamin had a musket now, acquired from a man who had been taken down by grapeshot. Gaping wounds seemed to be everywhere: face, neck, chest. He might have been forty years old, and as he lay in the ditch at the base of the embrasure wall his eyes stared up at the sky in surprise and disbelief. His blood pooled in the dirt. All the dead were stripped of their weapons, no questions asked, and the wounded were taken up the higher slope to the field hospital on Bunker Hill.

The problem was ammunition. No one had more than a few rounds left.

There was no doubt that the British would attack again. The number of men along the wall had dwindled. Those who fled were ignored mostly, though some suffered curses as they ran off in the direction of Charlestown Neck. And still, remarkably, almost defiantly, there were hundreds of men gathered on the far side of the Neck who would not cross over to the peninsula.

And there was no water. Benjamin tried not to think about it, but he laughed when Ezra said, “One mouthful of water would make this all worth it.”

His face was blackened by gunpowder. Benjamin looked about him. Lumley's face, too—all of them had darkened faces, which made their eyes seem overly large and white.

Dr. Warren walked along the top of the wall, speaking to the men. He had removed his coat, yet he still looked quite elegant in his white pants, shirt, and silk waistcoat. It seemed a pity that such garments had been soiled by dirt. He didn't seem to mind and, in fact, he appeared quite content as he passed by the men. He joked, he smiled, and when he reached Benjamin he paused and said, “You will need a bath when this is all over.”

The men around him laughed, and one of them said, “If he don't drink the bath water first, eh?”

“I would prefer something stronger, thank you,” the doctor said. “Madeira would do, though a tankard of ale would be just the thing with this heat. It's a bit warm for a bowl of flip.”

There was more laughter, and debate regarding preferred beverages.

Dr. Warren dropped down on his haunches and spoke quietly to Benjamin. “Your brother.” He patted his waistcoat pocket, which bulged with the envelope Benjamin had delivered to him. “I don't know how he does it. Hardly ventures from his house, always keeping his chamber pot close, and yet he has tentacles that run throughout Boston.” He studied Benjamin a moment, his blue eyes humorous and conspiratorial. “I understand you had something to do with silencing their field pieces?”

“The balls,” Lumley offered. “He and his sister, they tampered with their balls.”

All the men burst into laughter. Except Ezra.

“You Lovells are a remarkable family,” Dr. Warren said. “True Bostonians.” Then, standing up, he nodded and moved on along the top of the embrasure, talking to the men as he went.

“A nice piece of benediction, that,” Lumley said.

Ezra stared down the hill, pointing. “They've sorted out the problem with the ammunition by now.”

It was true. The British were reforming their lines and their field pieces were being wheeled into position up the hill.

“I've got two rounds left,” Lumley said.

“One, here,” Ezra said.

“I have a little powder but nothing to shoot,” Benjamin said.

They were leaning against the earthen wall. Some of the men were picking through the dirt for stones that would fit down the barrel of a musket: rocks, bits of glass, pieces of metal—anything that might be shot at the British with the little remaining powder. Lumley ran his fingers through the packed dirt and worked a stone loose. He held it up for inspection, as though considering all the facets of a rare gemstone. “That one ought to fit.”

Benjamin took the stone and then began digging in the wall, looking for more ammunition. He found a rusty piece of metal, probably from a cowbell chain, and more stones.

“That's it,” Lumley said. “Just ram the whole lot down and wait till they get close.”

As Benjamin loaded his musket, he watched the redcoats start to move up the hill, slowly, as before. There was something different about most of them—and then he said, “Their haversack—they've left them behind.”

“It's quite unlike the command,” Lumley said.

“Whot,”
Ezra said. “Not very sporting, I say.”

Lumley laughed.

They watched the soldiers advance, stepping over and around the dead and wounded. The small field pieces were now firing, creating a sporadic rhythm and sending great white trails of smoke up the hill. Often the balls were off the mark, some passing overhead, whistling, while those that landed short bounded up through the grass and slammed into the earthen wall, throwing up plumes of dirt. Down to their left, a man cried out when he was struck by a ball, which hurled him down into the pit, where he lay motionless.

Several officers prowled behind the men, shouting,
“Not yet! Wait! Wait!”

At the back of the redoubt, there was a commotion. Some new men arrived—Benjamin didn't know from where—and they filed quickly through the narrow opening in the rear of the fortress. They filled in beside others, lying in the dirt.

“Got yours?” Lumley asked.

Benjamin leveled his musket across the top of the dirt wall. He was reluctant to look at any one soldier too long. “Not yet.”

“There's still time,” Lumley said. “Just wait long enough that you can't miss.” Then he turned his head toward Benjamin. “You want to fire into a group. Fire low, for the legs.”

“Right.”

“After Noddle's Island I sorted out my problem,” Lumley said as he cocked his musket. “Officers. I only shoot officers.”

When the British were within a hundred yards, some began firing, though most continued to march uphill. The provincials held their fire. Lead screamed through the air and slammed into the earthen wall.

Benjamin sighted down the barrel of his musket. There were three men walking close together, hunched over as they moved through the swatches of flattened grass. They wore high fur hats: grenadiers. When they were within thirty yards, he could see their faces. They were all pale and lean, all young and broad-shouldered. The tallest of the three was in the middle. His stride was longer, and he appeared to be leading the other two. He was saying something to them.

To the left, there was a barrage of fire from behind the fence, and then the guns along the wall opened up. Benjamin looked at the three grenadiers. They seemed to understand that they were too close together and began to spread out.

“Now,”
Lumley shouted, and he fired his musket.

Ezra fired.

Benjamin's head felt thick, dull, and the gunshot seemed distant. He closed one eye, aimed at the middle grenadier's knees, and pulled the trigger. The musket had a powerful kick, slamming back into his right shoulder and causing him to slide a few feet down the angled wall. He crawled up and gazed down the hill at his three soldiers. Two were lying in the grass, one motionless, the other rocking back and forth. The tallest one was still coming on, limping. The right thigh of his white pants was streaked with blood. There were men lying everywhere in the grass now, crying out, screaming, and as the gunfire continued to pour into them, more soldiers moved up into the front ranks. The smoke from all the shooting made it difficult to see. Suddenly, as if ordered, the British who remained standing hesitated—except for Benjamin's tall grenadier. He kept coming, favoring his wounded leg. He was so close now that Benjamin could also see that there was something wrong with his left hand, which held the stock of his rifle. Fingers were missing and blood dripped onto his gaiters.

Some of the British soldiers began to move back down the hill, but still the provincials kept firing. It was hard for Benjamin to hear. His ears seemed stuffed. And the smoke only became thicker. Then he realized that the gunfire was diminishing. Looking down the wall, he saw that some men had put down their weapons. Some were hurling rocks into the meadow.

Suddenly, among the British soldiers, there was confusion. Officers had sabers drawn, threatening their own men. But they appeared stunned, disorganized, and while they were still being picked off some began to help their fallen mates to their feet. There was so much smoke that Benjamin could not find his tall grenadier.

He was aware of something new. Silence. The Americans were hardly shooting.

Turning, he saw that dozens were fleeing, passing through the narrow opening at the back of the redoubt. When he looked downhill again, he could barely see the British for the smoke. He wondered if they had begun to retreat. Perhaps both sides would abandon the crest of the hill—after all this, both sides would simply abandon the hill.

He looked at Lumley, and then at Ezra. He asked them what was happening, but he could barely hear his own voice. They both stared down at the meadow and shook their heads. They had put their muskets down. And they all waited.

Benjamin became preoccupied with working a stone out of the dirt. His fingers were raw from all the digging, black earth beneath his broken nails. The stone was gray, perfectly round, the right size. But it was pointless because he had no more cartridges. Beneath the divot left by the stone, he could see a rock and he began prying it loose with both hands. When freed, it proved to be the size of his fist, with a nice heft to it.

There came a sound from down the hill. It swelled, grew louder, and seemed to move. He could feel it—a rumbling in the ground, caused by pounding feet. And then they began to emerge from the smoke, soldiers shouting as they ran toward the redoubt. There was barely any gunfire from the provincials. Benjamin stood up, the rock in his hand. He threw it but he never saw it in the smoke. His grenadier was lying in the grass not ten yards from the base of the earthen wall. He couldn't get up and he had turned to watch the charge. It was a wall of men, with row after row behind them. They came up to the fallen grenadier, the first going around him, but then he seemed swallowed up and disappeared.